The Witch Thief (Harlequin Nocturne) (22 page)

Slowly, she turned the knob—expecting with each second that some trap would be sprung, but it wasn’t. She walked through the doorway and onto the ledge that overlooked the bar without incidence.

Once there, though, things got dicey.

Chapter 22

J
oarr brushed past the dwarf manning the club’s door. He was done pretending. Let the dwarf challenge him, let the humans see how a dragon handled anyone getting between them and their treasure.

The dwarf didn’t complain, but many of the humans did, yelling after him as he strode into the club and down the narrow basement hall. By the time he reached the stairs, he’d left their complaints behind, and a new noise, louder and more violent, caught his attention. It was coming from the main bar. He flew up the steps, barely bothering to dodge the humans flowing in the opposite direction—toward the exit.

The club was filled with dwarves, at least fifty of them. Some were dressed in the same dark clothing as the dwarves who had attacked Joarr outside the portal; others were dressed more traditionally in what appeared to be rough handwoven shirts and pants. And then there was the pirate. Dressed in red and purple, he stood on a board that hung in the center of the room…halfway between the bottom and top floors. In his hand was a saber, as long as he was tall, and on his head was a tricorn hat decorated with a peacock’s feather. He slashed his blade to the side and yelled something Joarr couldn’t make out. He seemed to be demanding something from a figure that stood on one of the overhangs above.

Joarr followed his gaze and stiffened.

Amma stood on the top overhang, her gaze dancing around her like a trapped rabbit. She clung to a canvas bag that was slipped over one of her shoulders.

The pirate yelled out an order. Boards dropped from the ceiling and dwarves clambered onto them. The small males clung to the ropes, like monkeys, or like pirates themselves. A few even held knives gripped in their teeth, the rest staying more conventional with the dwarves’ preferred weapon, an ax, in their free hand. All of them, though, were rising on their boards at breakneck speeds.

Despite the obviously slanted battle, Amma looked cool. She stood, her hand outstretched, but no magic leaving her palms…waiting.

She was waiting for them to be within range, Joarr realized, before she attacked.

He stood frozen, not sure what to do—whose side to fight on. Amma, who had drugged him and—he placed his palm over the crook of his elbow—stolen from him, again? Or the dwarves?

Not the dwarves. No matter what issues he had with Amma, the dwarves’ cause was not his.

He should, he knew, help neither. Leave the two sets of villains to battle each other, wait for the weakest to fail and then, when the victor was still tired, attack.

But…he looked at Amma. Her hair lifted as if there was a wind up above, but he knew it wasn’t wind—it was magic, her magic so strong her body vibrated with it and her hair came alive.

He had shared that magic—she had shared it with him.

And despite what she had done, despite the fact that even if she could explain her latest betrayal they could never be together, he loved her.

With that thought blazing inside him, he shifted.

* * *

The Collector was waiting for Amma when she stepped out of Fafnir’s office. The Collector and forty or so armed dwarves.

He hadn’t changed much since Amma had last seen him one hundred years earlier.

He stood with his feet braced on a board only wide enough for one dwarf. It hung from two thick chains—metal rather than rope and thicker than what held any of the other boards. It made his board more stable, less erratic in its movements. In his right hand he held a saber as long as his body. He waved it in the air in a way that could be taken as threat or greeting.

She raised her hands, made it clear she was ready to fight her way out if necessary. But she didn’t fire. Despite the dwarves winging their way on boards toward her and the Collector with his blade, none had actually made an attempt to harm her yet. Besides, they would be easier to hit once they were closer. Aim well and shoot once.

She pretended not to notice any of them for a moment; instead she focused on the Collector. If she was going for accuracy, he was out of range, too, but barely. In fact she suspected the old dwarf knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly where her magic would lose its precision. What he didn’t know, however, was that her magic had changed since being with Joarr, since carrying his baby. Power was inside her now, bubbling like lava.

It was stronger; she was stronger. And the Collector had no way of knowing. She put the thought to the side, concentrated instead on studying her adversary.

Physically he was average-looking for a dwarf. Short by human standards, medium height by dwarf. His chin was clean-shaven and his gray, shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a queue. The only thing that made him stand out was his clothing.

Tonight, like the last time Amma had met with him, he was wearing an odd assortment from what appeared to be a variety of times and places. His purple silk pants came only to his knees and his fringed shirt was made of buckskin. On his feet were modern human sneakers—the kind Amma had seen athletes hawking on TV. His frock coat was bright red and his tricorn hat sported a curling peacock feather. All in all he was painful to look at.

As his board rose, his gaze locked onto Amma. He waved his hand for his board to be stilled. As it did, he thrust his saber into the wood and plopped down like a child sitting on a swing.

“Amma. You’ve returned. Back for new information? Have you something to trade?” His eyes glittered and even from this distance she could feel his gaze roaming her body. From someone else this might have felt like an invasion, but from the Collector it felt exactly like what it was…an inventory.

His eyes were riveted on her bag. “You aren’t taking something from my club, are you? Sneaking something out?”

She kept her grip on the bag loose. “Nothing I don’t have rights to,” she replied.

“And what, sweet little orphan, could that be?” He moved his hand so it was next to the saber. Then swung his legs back and forth, causing his board to sway.

“Your son and I made a bargain,” she replied.

“My son? Not Regin—he has too much sense to be making trades without me. So, you must mean Fafnir.” Under his hat, his eyebrows lifted. “Fafnir is a fool, and anyone who does business with him is one, too.”

Amma shook her wrist, causing the bracelet Joarr had taken from the frozen Svartalfar to jingle.

The sound seemed to transfix the dwarf. He held out his hand. “You lied—you do have something.”

Not understanding what he was referring to, she hesitated, but the dwarf was already swinging his board toward her. Then his saber in one hand, he launched himself. Amma stepped back. As she did, the other dwarves still on their boards began to shout.

From her new position she couldn’t see what was going on below her, but she could hear what the dwarves were yelling. “Dragon.”

The Collector landed solidly on both feet in front of her. He spun and stared down. Then his saber held out in front of him he stalked toward Amma. “A dragon. In my club. Did you bring him here? Is he the same who was here the other night, while I was away?” He took another step, jabbed his sword forward. “If you think to steal my treasure, think otherwise. It’s well protected—too protected for even a dragon to steal.”

Suddenly, the cup seemed heavier. Suddenly, there was no doubt that the Collector hadn’t authorized Fafnir to give it to her. In fact she suspected the entire thing was a setup. He’d got his blood then turned her out, knowing his father and his army of dwarves would be waiting.

But he hadn’t counted on her being as strong as she was.

A roar sounded below them. The temperature in the bar soared. Within seconds the dwarf standing menacingly in front of her was dripping with sweat.

Amma smiled. Most definitely they hadn’t counted on Joarr.

Behind the dwarf, the dragon rose into view. There were gashes over his body. Dwarf-forged iron could do that, when no other metal could—slice through dragon scales. But he still was strong. He flapped his wings, holding his position in midair as if he were putting out no more effort than it would take to stroll across a meadow. He roared again; fire shot from his throat.

The Collector pivoted, his blade held up like a shield. Joarr’s fire hit it and splattered, like water hitting a wall.

That, Amma realized, was no regular saber, not even just a dwarf-forged saber.

Which, of course, made sense. He was the Collector. She had brought him the chalice. How many other beings had brought him things? What kind of riches and weapons did the dwarf have access to?

With a laugh, he reached for his hat and pulled some kind of disk from its brim. Still holding the saber to block Joarr, he tossed the disc at the dragon.

Joarr, lost in his fire, couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t realize what resources the dwarf had at his fingertips.

Amma screamed, yelling at Joarr, telling him to drop. At the same time she unleashed her magic. It flowed from her strong and hot—fire just like what had shot from Joarr’s throat. Not magic, fire…dragon fire.

Amma could hide it no longer; somehow, she was becoming a dragon.

She saw the flicker in Joarr’s eyes, knew he had not only heard her scream, but read her thoughts. He folded his wings into his body and dropped like a stone out of sight.

Amma screamed again and raced to the edge. One story below, the dragon hovered, his head turned up to stare at her. And despite all her work, all her time worrying about keeping her secret, she thought about it, imagined her child grown and looking like Joarr. Saw the baby, then the boy, then the man. Cried at the thought of losing him.

And Joarr heard it all.

She staggered backward under the weight of what she had done.

She had lost. She reached for the bag, ready to turn and admit defeat, but as the weight pulled at her shoulder she realized all wasn’t lost yet. Joarr had made the deal. Knowing her secret didn’t change that. She held the key to keeping her baby.

She jerked the bag from her body and flung it over the edge, toward the dragon. “Our deal. My part is complete. In exchange, I want this.” She placed her hands on her stomach. “I want your son.” Her voice cracked.

Chapter 23

J
oarr couldn’t believe what he’d heard, what he’d learned from listening to Amma’s thoughts. A son. His son. She was pregnant. And she thought that explained the fire and the smoke coming from inside her. That was why she’d allowed herself to think of her son now while Joarr was in his dragon form and able to read her thoughts—she thought by attacking the Collector with fire instead of magic, her secret, that she was carrying his child, had been revealed.

But it hadn’t. There was still another secret, one she didn’t know herself, but Joarr suspected the Collector did.

He flapped his wings, ready to soar back up and tell her. Then she threw the bag and yelled what she wanted.

His heart plummeted. He was thinking of her, of them, and she…she was only thinking of their deal, of taking his son.

A ploy…her sharing her magic, standing with him as he burned the dead dragon’s body…everything they had been through together had all been a ploy to trick him into giving up what she knew would be the most precious treasure he could ever hope to find.

The canvas bag tumbled toward him. He stared at it for a second, not caring if it smashed onto the floor below, not caring about anything. Then his sense returned. He needed the chalice; the dragons needed the chalice, or thought they did, and it was his duty to retrieve it. He shot toward the bag and caught it on his back; the handles looped over one of the ridges that defined his backbone.

Then he stared up at Amma. She was farther away now, but he could still read her thoughts if he chose…but he didn’t. The last, what she’d done, how she had tossed the bag…had hurt too much.

Betrayal from the woman he loved. Nothing had ever hurt this badly.

He lowered his wings and glided back to the floor. Once there he started to shift; he had the image of his human form in his mind. But suddenly, he snapped. Rage roared through him, crackled through his soul like fire devouring dry wood.

The chalice wasn’t enough. Dragons had died, and he had been betrayed. He wouldn’t leave things like this, wouldn’t fold in his wings and walk away leaving behind those who had hurt him and the other dragons safe and untouched.

He would destroy everything.

He released his magic—all of it, his own and what he had gained from melding with Amma. He left the modified size he’d taken and let himself grow, let his body fill the club. It felt good to shift to his full form and size. He spread his wings, raised them up over his head, their tips going up past the bottom of the ledge Amma stood on.

He could feel her, pulling in magic. There was no way for him to stop her, not while he was shifting. But he didn’t need to. She couldn’t pull enough magic to stop the rage racing through him.

The last few humans remaining in the club screamed and ran for the exits. Five dwarves fell as Joarr changed, as his body grew and brushed against the boards on which they stood. Amma didn’t move. The Collector did, though; he leaped for her.

The witch held him off with fire…Joarr’s fire and hers. Her own—she didn’t realize that yet.

The Collector pulled some device from his frock coat’s pocket and held it in front of him; air surged out of it, blowing Amma’s flames back at her. They flickered over her…of course…leaving her untouched. They couldn’t hurt her, just like Joarr’s own fire and ice could never hurt him.

He concentrated on what the Collector was thinking. A jumble of curses and names flooded Joarr’s mind, angry words, mutterings, the Collector wondering where his sons were, especially Fafnir. He thought Fafnir’s name again, then cursed over and over.

Fafnir. Joarr had forgotten him…the blood-drinking dwarf. He had much to answer for.

He yelled Fafnir’s name into Amma’s and the Collector’s minds. “Where is he?”

The Collector cursed again, thought how his son had brought this down on him, was risking his treasure. Joarr could feel the dwarf’s anger. The Collector glanced past Amma to a metal-bound wooden door, closed and, Joarr guessed, hiding Fafnir.

The Collector spat, then turned and ran, leaped off the ledge. From nowhere a board dropped and the dwarf landed on it. The board twisted and jumped, but the dwarf held on with one hand, the other still holding his saber.

Joarr ignored him. Let him escape. He didn’t want the Collector, not now that he had the chalice. He wanted Fafnir, the dwarf who somehow he knew was responsible for the death of the other dragons. And Amma, he wanted Amma, but he wasn’t sure for what…

Then clear and determined, the Collector’s voice rang out, “Fire!”

The dwarves had regathered, and now instead of axes and swords, they held machine guns.

Bullets flew toward Joarr from all directions. He roared and straightened his wings, held them up to shield the area where Amma stood. The bullets pinged against Joarr’s skin, bounced like hail off a sidewalk. The noise was deafening. He added to it, roaring again.

His hold on his dragon half was slipping. Treasure was near—his treasure—and Fafnir, the dwarf who thought he could take on the dragons and destroy them one by one.

Joarr opened his throat and dug deep in his reserves. He shot back at them—sheet after sheet of icy water that solidified to its solid form as it struck any surface. The dwarves were coated. Icicles hung from their guns, the boards, the rafters. Four fell forward, the ice too heavy for them to hold themselves up. They tumbled like statues onto the floor below.

Joarr stepped forward, searching for the Collector. He found him still on his board, a new toy, some kind of box, in his hand.

“You lied to her, didn’t you?” Joarr projected in his head. “Her father wasn’t an elf. Why? Were you afraid she wouldn’t give you the chalice if you told the truth?”

The Collector shook his head and mumbled, but Joarr could read his thoughts, knew his guess had been true. But at the moment, clearing up Amma’s misperception wasn’t a priority—finding Fafnir was.

He searched inside the Collector’s mind again, looked for his greatest fear. It wasn’t hard to find; perhaps the Collector had some dragon in him, too.

Treasure. The Collector was worried about losing his treasure, and now Joarr knew exactly where it was all hidden.

He let his eyes narrow to slits. “You know I can read your mind. I know everything you don’t want me to know now. Such treasure you have. Such lovely piles. Your son has been killing dragons. Did you know that? Do you know how?”

The Collector’s gaze went wide. His mind scrambled to cover his thoughts and shift their direction, but it was no good.

Joarr roared, fire licking out from his throat. “The chalice! You knew he had it, knew what it could do, and you didn’t stop him. That makes you a murderer, too.”

“Joarr—” Amma stood on the edge of the overhang, her body swaying “—our deal… It’s sealed.” Just minutes before she had been strong and fighting, but now she was pale and growing paler.

Panic lanced through Joarr. He turned back to the Collector. “What did you do to her?”

Nothing. The Collector’s thoughts were clear. He had no idea what was happening to the witch.

“Amma,” he spoke into her head. “Whose blood did you give Fafnir?”

Her knees bent beneath her and she crumpled to the ground. “Not yours,” she murmured. “I didn’t trust him. I thought I could trick him.”

“Whose blood?” Joarr screamed.

She reached for her sleeve, shoved it up above the elbow. A cloth stained with red was tied there.

“No! The chalice, he’s using it to drain dragons. He drinks their blood from it and leeches their powers.”

“But…” She ran the back of her hand over her face, looked confused and lost. “I’m not a dragon, and I have the cup. I gave it to you.”

Joarr turned back to the Collector. “The bag on my back, take it. Tell me what is inside.” He moved closer to the dwarf.

The Collector licked his lips, but reached for the bag and pulled out a cloth-wrapped package.

“Is it the chalice?” Joarr asked.

Joarr could hear the Collector humming in his mind, trying not to answer. “Tell me, or I will tell every dragon who exists where you store your treasure.”

The Collector gritted his teeth. “No. It isn’t the chalice…not the one you’re looking for, anyway.” He held up a dented gray metal cup.

“Tricked,” Joarr muttered. “Amma, you were tricked.” She sat crumpled on the floor, barely looked up as he said the words.

Behind Amma the iron-bound door opened, and Fafnir, his hands wrapped around a gold-stemmed cup, wobbled out. His eyes were fevered, his skin flushed. He took a gulp from the cup. A red stain ringed his lips. His ran his tongue around his mouth, swiping every bit of the scarlet liquid back into his mouth. Then he took another swig and careened closer.

Joarr wasn’t sure the dwarf could see them or even knew they were there. He stared at the cup in the dwarf’s hand.

“Thief!” the Collector yelled. His saber shot up and the bag he’d been holding tumbled to the ground below. “I knew you’d been snooping around my treasures, but never thought you’d be stupid enough to steal from me.”

Fafnir stared at him with only one eye open. “Only supposed to take a sip a day, but I could tell soon as I tasted what the witch brought me, she was trying to trick me. This wasn’t dragon blood. It was something else.” He tapped a finger against his nose, stumbling to the right as he did. “Couldn’t place it, but figured long as I had it, why not enjoy it? And you know, it’s good. I might have some more.” He leered at Amma.

She raised a hand, or tried to; it fluttered back down to her lap.

“Positions,” the Collector yelled.

Fafnir stared into his cup. “I’ve drank most of it. Time for a refill.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and stalked toward Amma.

Joarr stood tense, gathering fire. As the dwarf took another step, he opened his mouth and a narrow line of fire blasted from inside him—pure fire enough to leave the dwarf nothing but a pile of ash. It hit Fafnir in the gut. Quick, easy and pain-free, at least for Joarr.

He closed his lips and shifted his body, so he could nudge Amma with his nose.

Fafnir, cup and dagger both still in his hands, stumbled back into view. His shirt and pants were burned. Only the cuffs of his sleeves hanging over his hands and the bottoms of his pants covering his feet still remained. The rest of his stout and blackened body was completely naked.

But it wasn’t burned. He wasn’t burned.

Joarr’s eyes widened. His fire had been strong enough to down any being…except another dragon.

Fafnir seemed surprised, too, and pleased. He dropped his dagger, placed the chalice on the floor and then stood with his hands pressed to his bare stomach. “Didn’t burn. You shot an inferno at me and I didn’t burn.” He lifted his chin and laughed. Victory, scorn, pride—his howls contained them all. He lowered his head and stared at his father. “Who’s weak now, Dad? Who you going to trust now? Not Regin. Compared to me he’s weak! I’m the powerful son now. I’m the dragon!” He ran forward to the end of the ledge and leaped.

At the same time, the Collector gave some signal and bullets spewed toward the dwarf.